


Wouldn't that save you?

by SmilinStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I was going to get stuck somewhere like this, I’m glad you were the one with me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wouldn't that save you?

Day One

 

The ruckus outside continues for an age. It is all raucous laughter and lewd jeering in a language she doesn’t understand. The clinking of glasses and smashing of beer bottles lasts for hours until it falls silent. They’ve most likely all fallen unconscious in a celebratory drunken stupor. It doesn’t fill her heart with any hope for escape.

“Ward,” she calls out, her voice hoarse from all the screaming, “Agent Ward.”

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t flinch as yet again he tries banging against the steel door with his bare, bruised and bloodied knuckles in a futile attempt to free them both.

“It’s no use,” she says, and she hates the despair creeping in.

She can see the moment the words hit him. His last punch on the unyielding metal is ferocious. She’s sure the sound that she just heard reverberating around the room was the crunch of his bones. She winces.

His shoulders droop down. His hands reach out in front of him, steadying himself against the door, his head simply hanging. She can see defeat ripple through him as his whole body heaves with the exertion of keeping himself upright.

She treads slowly over to him. She can’t see much in the darkness, but the moonlight shining through the small barred window, high up out of reach, is just enough.

She reaches up and out, one small hand landing on his shoulder.

He shudders under her touch.

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, turning it slowly to look down at her behind him.

His eyes lock with hers. The promise in them stops her next breath dead still in her chest.

“I’m going to get you out of here Simmons.” The words come out strong and steady.

She squeezes his arm and gives him the barest hint of a smile, “I know you are.”

 

Day Three

 

It’s been nearly forty-eight hours and she feels like she’s on the verge of delirium. One bottle of water between them is not enough for the incessant thirst.

She’s sitting on the concrete ground, back against the bare brick walls, jagged and rough. The cold is seeping in through the thin layers of her clothes. Instinctively she turns her body in closer towards the man sitting beside her, seeking his warmth to share.

He catches on fast, and the arm already draped around her tugs her in tight.

“What do they want with us?” she asks. It’s not the first time she’s uttered the question, and it won’t be the last.

It’s been two days and they’ve not heard a peep from them. The not knowing is driving her insane.

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough,” he says.

Soon enough turns into a mere few seconds, and the hope that comes with it dies just as soon as the moment comes.

He hears it first, the muffled footsteps and the scrape of heavy metal just outside. His spine straightens and he jumps up on to his feet, startling her momentarily until he raises a finger to his lips and understanding dawns.

He creeps forward as she lingers behind. She can see him tense, readying himself for a fight. Whoever was coming through those doors were about to become acquainted with Agent Grant Ward’s fists.

She’s not sure it’ll be enough but it’s all they have.

What they don’t count on, however, is these bastards being sadistically clever.

As the door opens, all the fight is knocked out of him with one swift, effective blow.

It is a little girl, carrying a tray of food in her small shaking hands that steps through. She is in all likelihood no more than seven or eight years old. Her face is grubby, her dress old, muddied and frayed. It’s the fear in her eyes that makes Jemma’s heart plummet to the depths of her barren stomach.

Ward stumbles blindly back. She can see the shock and horror all over his face.

The girl averts her eyes as she holds out the tray. He doesn’t move and so Jemma reaches out and takes it in his place.

“Thank you,” she whispers, although she’s not sure she’s been understood as the girl hurries to turn around and leave.

Ward calls out after her – the words are softly spoken, even if the language itself sounds harsh,

"Чего они хотят от нас?"

_(What do they want from us?)_

He gets no answer as the door closes behind her and the scrape of metal and deadbolts falling into place hammers through the silence.

 

Day Seven

 

When they eventually come for them, they do it with little fanfare.

They’re huge; almost double the width of Ward, armed with automatic rifles and goodness knows what else.

So when they come marching in, point one finger at the man standing protectively in front of her and order a “You. Come with us,” in heavily accented English, there is no room for argument.

Still, it doesn’t stop her from reaching out for him in blind panic. They pull him away from her with ease but he manages to turn his head in her direction just as they push him out the door.

His lips don’t move but his eyes read, “I’ll be fine. It’s going to be okay.”

That was more than five hours ago. Her watch may not have synced up with whatever part of Russia they were being kept captive in but it still kept perfect time. She may not have any idea what time it was, but somewhere out there in the world it was 5.30pm. Children were home from school doing their homework, people were packed like sardines on public transport commuting home. Life was still going on as normal.

The thought drives another shard through her gut.

She has lost count of the number of times she has paced this small prison cell from wall to wall. She only stops when the burning through every muscle fibre in her legs starts to overpower the torment of her worry and fear soaked thoughts.

The shadows have moved from one end of the cell to the other before she hears the footsteps.

She pushes herself up and stands there, arms hugging her chest.

They shove him into the room and he stumbles forwards.

Its pure relief that he’s still standing there alive that makes her rush forward without hesitation, and bury her head in his chest, her arms coming around his waist and hug him tight.

She doesn’t see him wince at her tight grip. Instead, his hand pats her back awkwardly and he says softly, “I’m okay.  _I’m okay_.”

 

Day Ten

 

“Do you think they’ve seen it yet?”

“Hmm?”

He’s sitting on the opposite side of the cell, the half that’s covered in shade, while she sits in the corner where the sunlight comes through the small window and falls across her in a beam.

Her skin is pale, and the dark circles under her eyes stand out in stark relief. She looks as tired and as worn as he feels, but there is still a light burning on in her eyes and that gives him some hope.

“The video.”

She’s talking about the ransom video they forced him to make a few days ago. They hadn’t seen or heard from any of them since the day they had come and pulled him out of their cell, shoved him in front of a camera, held a gun to his temple and punched him in the gut a few times for good measure.

“Probably.”

“Do you think they’ll give them what they want?”

He sighs. He knows she knows the answer to that question. There is no negotiating with terrorists and S.H.I.E.L.D. was not going to break protocol for them.

“Simmons,” he starts with, but just can’t find it in himself to tell her what she already knows and break her heart.

Instead he says, “Coulson will find us.”

She nods and looks away.

He thinks he sees her eyes dim before she does, and he hates himself a little more.

 

Day Thirteen

 

“It’s not that bad.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine!”

“Ward, let me see.”

He grits his teeth and does what she asks. He really doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to add to her burden. She’s hardly sleeping but then who would be able to. She’s hardly eating, and he can’t really blame her for that either. He eats only because he knows he has to keep up his strength with what measly amounts of food they give them, for both their sakes. He promised her he would get her through this, get them out, and he wasn’t going to let her down by becoming a weak, beaten man, in every sense of the word.

He knows she’s worrying about everything and everyone but herself, him included. And now he’s going to have to add to it.

He lifts up his shirt slowly, eyes never leaving her face.

“Oh god,” she whispers. She looks so utterly horrified, eyes wide, lips parted as she stares at his torso.

It is covered in large black and blue bruises. There is hardly a patch of unblemished skin remaining. “Oh god, Ward,” she whispers again.

He pulls down the hem of his shirt, but her hand on his stops him half way. She lifts it back up, and his arms fall to the side. Raising a hand, she traces the outline of the newest addition to the artwork being punched into his skin on an almost daily basis now.

Her fingers are feather light, hesitant, afraid to hurt him further. Despite her efforts, his skin burns after the trail of her touch.

He takes a sharp inhale of breath.

She drops her arm instantly, and steps back.

“I’m so sorry,” she says shaking her head.

He doesn’t know how to tell her that it hadn’t hurt at all.

She looks up at him, eyes searching, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. There’s nothing you can do anyway Simmons.”

She doesn’t say anything, but the brief little spark in her eyes seemed to read a lot like, “Like hell I can’t.”

And that does not sit easy with him at all.

 

Day Fourteen

 

He learns that he read her correctly the very next day.

They come for him again in the morning. He pushes himself up off the ground, ready for whatever they have in store for him today, but by the time he looks up, he realises that Simmons is already standing there, too many steps away from him, and only a mere few centimetres from his tormenters. He can barely comprehend the scene in front of him let alone the words she next says;

“I think it’s my turn now.”

“Simmons,” he says, voice low and strained.

She doesn’t look back at him. Instead, she raises her chin defiantly up at the thugs standing in front of her. Despite her sounding deceptively calm, he can see the tremor in her hands. She clenches them tight into fists in an attempt to hide her fear.

“Simmons, what are you doing?”

The leering smile on the men in front of them, and the hungry look in their eyes make Ward’s blood boil. His stomach is churning, and he hates what she’s set in motion.

He had been so grateful that they had fixated on him as their punching bag and seemingly forgotten about the pretty scientist they’d stuck him in a cell with. He had hoped they would be able to get themselves out of here or the team would come and rescue them, before they even realised. And he knew they would. He imagined they would get through him first and then turn to her. But now, now she was just handing herself over. Just like that.

“Jemma, no.”

She looks back at him over her shoulder as one of the men grab hold of her upper arm. She gives him a wobbly smile, “Its ok,” she says.

“не волнуйтесь, мы будем заботиться о ней,” one of them says with a lecherous wink as they push her out the door.

_(Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.)_

“Like hell you will!” he yells, scrambling forwards.

But all he gets in answer is a punch to the face and the slam of the heavy door.

 

Day Fifteen

 

They finally bring her back to him a full twenty-four hours later.

He’s been driven insane by his mind thinking up all the possible ways in which they’ve hurt her and at the same time desperately trying to push those thoughts away.

He’s worked himself into quite a state, waiting, worrying. And now he realises how she must have felt all those times they’d pushed and pulled him out of there. He understands why she would cling to him so tightly each time he came back.

“Simmons?” he says, voice hoarse and cracking.

She’s alive. She’s still standing. And she’s shaking like a leaf.

He steps forwards, and it’s like he’s not in control of his own limbs. His hands grab at her face, lifting it up so he can really look.

She’s crying. There is a hand-shaped bruise on her left cheek, a cut to her lower lip. He runs his hands down her arms, almost wordlessly assessing for other injuries, but she grabs hold of his hands and shakes her head. “I’m okay. I’m okay,” she repeats.

He lets go of her, runs both hands through his hair and over his face, “Goddammit Simmons! Don’t you ever  _ever_  do that again!”

She’s still crying as she nods. He grabs at her face again and pulls her into him, one hand fisted in her hair and the other clutching at her back.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

 

Day Eighteen

 

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” She asks sleepily. She’s sat beside him, dozing.

“I promised you I’d get you out of here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“What were you going to do Ward? Take down all the guards by yourself, somehow get yourself and me out of the building without being shot to pieces, somehow figure out where the hell we are and commandeer a vehicle and find our way out and home?”

“That was the plan.”

She laughs softly and he feels a warmth spread through him, starting somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

“I’m glad it was you.” She says then, her head falling on to his shoulder.

He tries not to shift, though he desperately has this sudden urge to. It’s all nervous tension, building from somewhere he doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

“If I was going to get stuck somewhere like this, I’m glad you were the one with me.”

He wants to return the sentiment, but the words get lodged in his throat. His mouth has gone unbearably dry and he can barely swallow.

He looks down at her. Her hair is falling across her face, eyes closed, the swelling to her cheek settling down. Even after nearly three weeks of hell, there is still a small smile on her lips.

She is beautiful. It makes his chest ache, but it’s the good kind of ache.

And for now he thinks its okay to let go.

He drops his head on to hers and closes his own eyes.

 

Day Twenty

 

The explosions startle them both.

Her eyes are wide and terrified.

The noise sounds ridiculously close, as if it’s coming from just outside. Yet again he wishes the window wasn’t so damn high up.

There is gunfire and they can hear the commotion outside. The Russian spoken is frantic and loud. It’s all barking orders and yelling for others to hurry.

The voices then get quieter as if they’ve all just left them there, whilst the gunfire continues on in bursts.

It lasts no more than ten minutes, before it falls eerily silent.

He can hear nothing but the thundering of his heart and her breathing beside him. In and out. In and out.

The silence is broken by a single pair of footsteps.

Metal scrapes and the heavy door is pushed open.

It is Agent Melinda May who stands before them.

It’s over.

It’s finally over.

He reaches over and grabs hold of Simmon’s hand and squeezes.

He doesn’t let go of her the entire way home, and not even after that.

 

******

 

They are taken for separate debriefs and medical examinations as soon as they land back at the Hub. They literally have to pry Jemma away from Ward and Ward isn’t much better - his focus entirely on her, constantly asking where she is, if she’s okay.

Fitz hovers around Simmons, never more than a couple of metres away. The young engineer has lost weight he didn’t even have to lose and looks drawn and tired. There is relief though in his eyes and pure joy radiating from him. The same could be said for Skye, who very nearly squeezed the life out of them both when she first saw them. There may have been tears in her eyes and when he had jokingly brought it up, she may have muttered a wet “shut up” in his direction.

Coulson claps him on the back, and when Ward tells him “Thank you, sir. For coming for us.”

He replies only with a sad “I wish it hadn’t taken so long.”

It is many hours later before they are both returned to the Bus. They had wanted them to stay overnight at the Hub, but they had both refused. They had wanted to be back in the comfort of what they knew and had longed for for those three endless weeks.

The team end up throwing them a little impromptu “welcome back” party. Neither he nor Simmons have the heart to tell any of them that they really don’t have the energy for it, but it’s hard to dampen their spirits. It’s not until he sees all their faces, he realises just how hard it was for them too and so he lets it slide.

They disperse around midnight; Skye and Fitz dragging Simmons away. They had been almost permanently glued to either side of her when they had got back. He had had to make do with glances across the coffee table to constantly reassure himself that yes she was alive, and yes they had both made it out of there.

He watches them leave, as May comes to stand in front of him and gives him a rare smile, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He nods back with an answering smile, before making his excuses and leaving. He heads to his bunk for what he hopes will be a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

An hour doesn’t even go by before a soft knock has him out of bed. Not that he had even managed to close his eyes, let alone sleep.

He opens the door and is not at all surprised to find Simmons standing there.

Dressed in blue pyjamas covered in cupcakes, he can’t help but smile.

She doesn’t even have to speak, he just knows.

He simply stands to the side and lets her in, closing the door quietly after her.

 


End file.
